Death By Chocolate
by MsMojorisin
Summary: A first person sort of autobiography by Mello from Death Note. Tells the story of his childhood, Wammy's years, and mafia years. No yaoi, but that doesn't mean there won't be any fanservice. ;
1. Chapter 1

"It started when we were little kids. Free spirits, but already tormented by our own hands, given to us by our parents. We got together and wrote on desks and slept in laundry rooms near snowy mountains, and slipped through whatever cracks we could find. Minds altered, we didn't falter in portraying hysterical and tragic characters in a smog filled universe. We loved the dirty city, and the journeys away from it. We had not yet been or seen our friends, selves, chased tails round and round in downward spirals, leaving a trail of irretrievable, vital life juice behind. Still, the brothersbloodcomradespartnerfamilycuz was impenetrable and we lived inside it, laughing with no clothes. And everything experimental till death was upon us, in our face, mortality. And lots of things seemed futile then, but love and music can save us, and did. While the giant grey monster grew more poisonous and volatile around us, jaws clamping down and spewing ugly shit around. Nothing is the same, so we keep moving. We keep moving." –Anthony Kiedis, "Deep Kick"

I once saw a commercial for the U.S Marines where a man asked "If someone wrote a story about your life, would you read it?"

And my honest, humble reply would be "hell yes".

It's not that I think I'm cool or badass. If anything I'm nothing but a pissy, whiney little bitch with expensive taste in chocolate. But one thing is for sure, drama and danger have dogged me throughout my life like herpes on a hooker. Did I ask for it? No. Would I change it if I could?... I'd have to think on that one.

Quite honestly, the thought of growing up in an apple pie-peaceful nuclear family sickens me. Perhaps I'm just jealous of the fact that some people can go through their entire lives bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, their greatest hardship being the death of their pet hamster. Or more likely, I've become addicted to the adrenaline of dizzying car chases and living a pen stroke away from my demise. The red and blue flash of police sirens, the bullets whizzing through my hair. They're like heroin to me. For whatever reason, God has graced my life with the sweet gift of illicit serendipity.

Maybe that's why I've always hated Near, he's a child prodigy. Not just Near, but all child prodigies. They never have to work for anything they have, never have to struggle to survive. They just sit back and let it all come to them, let life beg them to help them breath and thrive and succeed. That's not a life. I'd rather be a vegetable in a coma, fighting for every heart beat, than a child prodigy. In a way, I pity them. They will never know the self satisfaction of a hard day's work, nor the exhilaration of living a life that they have created for themselves. Instead, they simply drift through life without challenge, like an extremely intelligent zombie. As Matt would put it, it's like playing a video game on the easiest setting possible. Sure, you get through each level with no hassle, and there's the smug, megalomaniacal satisfaction of being the strongest player in the game. But what happens when you win too quickly? After the game is over, there is no victory prize or bonus level. God isn't there with a silver plaque and angelic choruses. There is nothing, and you are left dazed and empty, wondering where the hell your life went.

Despite all the close run ins I've had with death, I can honestly say that I don't want to die. It's not that I'm afraid to; it's just that I have too much unfinished business, too many things to check off my list before I finally kick the can. I've stared mortality in the face on many occasions, but never once have I felt fear. It's more of a bracing feeling, kinda like that split second in the air after you flip off your bike. You know it's gonna hurt, you know that ground's gonna hit you hard, but you don't have time to be afraid. All you have time to do is instinctually brace yourself and think "Oh shit, this is it". It's not until a few moments after that you recover from shock, and the severity of the situation hits you. Then you freak out and babble like a monkey on crack.

That's why I'm writing this. Because I've had too many incidents like that, too many incidents where I've thought "Damn, I hope I'll be remembered for being something more than a leather-clad douche bag with a gun in his crotch". I'll have you know, it's an interesting series of events and mishaps that have led me to become a leather-clad douche bag with a gun in his crotch. Perhaps if I write them down, someone will understand how I've become the person I am today, and maybe even shed a wee tear of sympathy for me.

Or maybe they'll tear off the pages and use it for toilet paper.

Either way, I've tried my hardest to be the bard for those whose great deeds (and not so great deeds) have gone unsung. For those who don't know what I'm talking about, refer to my previous notes on the L.A BB murder cases. I'll truly be heart broken if that ends up as toilet paper. You can scoff at my less than orthodox chronicles, but L was a great man whose tale deserves a much more literate hand than my own. It's a shame that I, of all people, am one of the last surviving individuals who knew L as more than just a voice behind a computer screen. The only other is the very man who killed him, and I think he'd be less than kind with his recollections of him. So to whatever poor soul has the misfortune of stumbling upon this journal (most likely the coroner) allow me to introduce myself. I am a gangster, and I am an orphan. I am a killer, and I am a lover. I am the alpha dog of the underground, and I am the forsaken child standing in the rain. I am Mihael Keehl, and this is my story.


	2. Chapter 2

"When my mother died I was very young,  
And my father sold me while yet my tongue  
Could scarcely cry " 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"  
So your chimneys I sweep and in soot I sleep" –William Blake, "The Chimney Sweeper"

The first person I ever killed was my own mother.

Not intentionally at least, she died during childbirth. Still, there's something to be said of taking your first life before taking your first breath. There's a sort of stigma that follows you like an invisible miasma; the look in your eyes, the tone of your voice, a kind of murderous gaydar if you will.

I'm not even sure of the exact town I was born in. I came into this world squawking and blood-soaked in the back of a rusted sedan, parked alongside some frost-bitten highway in Russia. My father told me he buried my mother on the spot that night, but I have yet to find the exact location. He just covered her with some snow, stuck up a makeshift cross, said a few words, and kept on truckin'. That's how things were back then, and my sister and I are not ones to break tradition.

My father never begrudged me for what happened; in fact, he even concocted a little bedtime story so that I wouldn't blame myself. He would prop me up on his lap, gaze at me intently over his coke bottle glasses, and say "Mihael, did I ever tell you the story about how your mother died?" And each time, no matter how many times I had heard it, I shook my head. "Well, ever since I married your mother, I've always wanted a son to call my own. Now don't get me wrong, I love our little Petra, but she was not a son I could raise to build a family and a trade with. So when I found out your other was pregnant again, I went to an old gypsy woman and bought a potion from her." At this part, he would wrinkle up his face and speak in a gravely old voice. "And she told me, 'give this to your wife and pray to the heathen gods, then her next child will be a boy.' So I gave it to her. Now, do you know your 10 commandments Mihael?" At this I would nod my head fervently in agreement. "What's the second commandment?" He would ask. I would then announce in my best school boy voice "thou shalt have no other Gods before me." My father would smile warmly, and I would drink in the extra attention like an egotistical sponge. "Very good! Now, your papa was a bad man, and broke this rule by praying to the gypsy gods. Sure enough, I had my son, but God had taken my wife as punishment." He would say this as he placed his huge palms on my head and ruffled my hair lovingly. "Now you be a good boy, and someday, when you're my age, God will give you a beautiful wife and a son of your own." Finally, he would hold me in his arms, flooding me with the scent of cheap cologne and pine needles. Never before had such a load of bullshit smelled so sweet.

So my father, now single and penniless with two squealing children, did what any logical Soviet man would do.

He joined the Russian mafia.

He never really straight up came out and told us, he would just have "friends" come over and deliver packages… such as large suitcases full of money and heroin. I wasn't stupid, even at the tender age of 4 I could sense the sudden uneasiness in my father's voice and point out his bold-faced lies. While I wasn't sure of the exact details, I knew he was dealing in something of an illegal nature. Petrushka, 3 years my senior, filled me in on all the terminology.

My father tried his hardest not to mix us up in his business, but it became nearly impossible once he started climbing into the ranks of the mob. Sometimes he would leave us at the playground for days with nothing but a few rubles and a goodbye kiss. We'd sleep in the dirty tunnels, carving our names into the red plastic, and in the morning we'd pop out and scare all the school children. Actually, we probably did look something like hellish little demons. The frigid autumnal winds left us emaciated and hollow eyed, our hair matted into blonde icicles. We took pride in our barbaric appearance, savored the gaping terror in the faces of the children we preyed on. Even at that young age, we knew we lived by a different law than them. We were wild, deviants, the type of kids mothers would shield their sons and daughters from, and we relished each and every shivering cringe we sent up their spines. There was no way my father could've known it, but those bitter nights spent haunting the tunnels of the playground planted the seeds for our sadistic lifestyles.

The longest we'd ever spent at the playground was about 3 days. Without fail, our father would pick us up, tutting over our filthy appearance and soaking us in the tub for hours. Afterwards he would take us out for soft pretzels, the first warm meal we would've had in a long time. I would always order mine with a cup of hot chocolate, the sweet, blissful goodness thawing my frozen lips. Perhaps that's how I've become addicted to the stuff, relating it to all my suppressed memories of wholesomeness and innocence. Chocolate is the only thing that can unlock those emotions for me. At least ever since my father died.

He dropped us off at the playground one day, his scruffy face smiling at us through the frost-rimmed windows. It was the last time I ever saw him.


	3. Chapter 3

I awoke that morning to the sound of crunching pretzels.

"Mihael… Mihael, get up you lazy brat! Russell's here to pick us up." Petrushka stood over me, crumbs raining down into my hair from her munching jaws. I squinted at her through sleep-deprived eyes and brushed off the bits of pretzel. "Mwuh? Why isn't Dad picking us up?" We had spent another night at the playground, but our father always came personally to bring us back home. Petrushka shrugged, spraying crumbs everywhere once again. "Dunno. Don't care. He's got a box full of snacks and I'm freezing. Let's go." With that, she grabbed my wrist and forcefully jerked me in the direction of the car.

Russell was an old friend of my father's from the mob, a tall, wiry English bloke with a thick accent and even thicker glasses. He fidgeted constantly like a paranoid mouse, and his unruly hair always made it look like something had just exploded in his face. Despite his connections with the mafia, he was a very polite and proper man, which made me wonder what got him to join in the first place. Could've been money, protection, power, more than likely he was paying off an old debt and didn't like the idea of getting his knee caps shot out. The poor guy never belonged in a place like this. You could tell from his neurotic mien that he was constantly living in fear, regretting whatever childish mistake it was that landed him in this position. "If only…" you could practically see the words dangling from his lips, seething in his eyes. "If only I hadn't done this, if only I could change the past," if only I could've seen what was coming next.

Petrushka drug me reluctantly to Russell's failing Ford Escort, wrenching my wrist in a painful direction. Call it a premonition, call it a sixth sense, but something wasn't settling right. Russell's smile was too forced, his complexion too pale. His hands shook violently against the black plastic of his steering wheel, as did his voice. We flung ourselves into the backseat, thankful that the heater was one of the few working components left in the car. I rubbed my reddening wrist and nearly dove head first into the large box of snacks Russell had on the front seat. I went straight for the Chips Ahoys, wishing for a matching cup of hot chocolate to complete the ensemble. "How are my little mischief makers doing?" Russell flashed us an unconvincing grin, compulsively pushing up his ever-falling glasses. Both Petrushka and I stopped in mid-swallow and stared at him. Something was definitely wrong; Russell was never this bright and chipper. There was a tense pause that seemed to last for ages as he utterly beamed at us through his comically crooked glasses. "Where's Dad?" Petrushka said it bluntly, breaking the silence and getting to the point. Russell simply kept on smiling like a narcotized clown. "Where the hell is Dad, Russell?!" I never heard the exact words that came next. I didn't need to. His expression told it all.

Time slowed into a dream like state as the thousand thoughts running through my head splattered together like a Jackson Pollock. I've always found it interesting that at times of great distress, the first thought that manages to actually connect with your brain is always awkward and extremely inappropriate. In this case, I was shocked to see Russell crying, though he had every reason to. I had never seen a man cry before, and I couldn't help but notice how ugly he looked; how his facial features twisted into a fleshy mush of anguish and grieving, how mucous dribbled from his nose onto his lips, it was absolutely disgusting. I made a silent vow to myself never to look like that, never let myself be deformed by weakness and futility. I would end up breaking that vow several times over.

Then reality smacked into me like a concrete wall.  
Dad was dead.  
Dead.

The word rolled around in my mind like a loose marble. Dead. Death. Dying. Our dad was dead… what the hell was going to happen to us? I know I sound selfish thinking solely about my own wellbeing, but you have to realize that I had accepted my father's death long before it actually happened. Petrushka and I both knew our father was running on borrowed time; a gentle, humble man such as himself only lasted so long in the mafia. Don't get me wrong, the pain I felt after my father's death was intense, but it was like finding out your 100 year old grandma finally kicked the bucket. There was no sudden gasp or explosion of tears, no pleading to God for an explanation. Just a sullen kind of "aw shit" and a shaking of your head.

Russell had somehow managed to curl awkwardly into the fetal position on the front seat of his cramped Ford, and laid there shaking and sniveling. He looked something like a scrawny hamster having a seizure, yet the juxtaposition between grown man and fuzzy rodent made the image somewhat disturbing. Eventually, the sobbing tremors subsided and he blew his nose violently into an old napkin. "Well, your dad told me to find good homes for you two if anything happened to him." Russell paused in thought and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Guess there's really nowhere to go for now but the shack." The gear shaft protested loudly as he shifted out of park, but finally submitted as we puttered off over the bobbing hills of unshoveled snow.

I fell into an uneasy sleep after about 15 minutes; still being too short to see out the window, I found car rides boring and drowsy. After an indeterminable amount of time, I found we had arrived at a tiny, frost-bitten outhouse awkwardly placed in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Russell undid my seatbelt and gingerly lifted me out of the car, which was sweet, yet unnecessary. My 5 year old self held back the urge to remind him that I was a big boy now. Leading me by the hand to the port-a-potty from hell, he opened the door to reveal a spiraling metal staircase, which we followed into what appeared to be the some sort of long-lost hippie love nest. Day-glo posters plastered the walls and the cloying scent of mildew and incense assaulted my nose as we slipped through the curtain of beads. Even today, the mafia seems to be at least 20 years behind in fashion sense. Ironically, most of the people draped lazily across the paisley sofas looked more like lumberjacks than bohemian spirits, glaring at us through the smoky haze like drunken lizards: _angry_ drunken lizards. My grip on Russell's hand tightened as I fought back the knot of fear rising in my throat. Just then, a frighteningly burly, hulking man strode past us, beckoning forebodingly to Russell with his finger. There was an audible gulp as he knelt down to speak to us. "You two go sit on the sofa and behave while I take care of business. And don't talk to anyone you don't know." He clapped two pale, clammy hands on our shoulders and flashed an uneasy smile as he followed the man-beast into a nearby doorway. The door clicked shut with an ominous snap that had a sickening sound of finality to it. Petrushka and I exchanged identical, concerned grimaces, and found the nearest couch to "behave" on.

The motley assortment of individuals who were now surrounded by can best be described as the incarnate equivalent of a thrift store shopping rack. Cheap, dirty, worn out deviants decked in ratty flannel jackets glared at us through blood-shot eyes as they exhaled swirling plumes of pot smoke into the air. I instinctively reached for Petrushka's hand and clung onto it for dear life, my tiny fingernails digging into her soft skin. The idea that my only form of protection against this assorted mix of rusty and tattered hand-me-downs was an 8 year old girl was not very comforting.

That's when I first met him.

"So how did you two lost, little angels manage to drift into our slice of hell?" An icy bolt of fear shocked through my body as my head whiplashed around to find the source of the voice.

Before me stood a man with a greasy oil slick of black hair, beneath which peeked a pair of chillingly grey eyes. A smirk as lopsided as his posture was slapped across his face, as was a thin, white, long-sleeved shirt over his lanky frame. Absentmindedly scratching his opposite leg with bare toes, his boney thumb found its way into the corner of his mouth, pushing his lips in a way that made him look like a macabre goldfish. "Don't worry, I'm one of the nice guys here." He took his finger out from between his teeth, giving us a slobbery thumbs-up. "So lemme guess, you two are Gregor's kids, right?" Still under the impression that we could not talk to strangers, we nodded hesitantly. "Petrushka and Mihael…" The man gazed intently at some unknown object of interest above our heads. "You two really are as cute as your dad said you were." So this guy knew our father. Petrushka, assuming the man was no longer a stranger, ventured to speak to him. "Uhh… what's your name?" She asked meekly. A distant confusion flashed in his calculating eyes for a split second, as if he was trying to translate the word into something understandable. "My name I sadly cannot give to you my love, though I have been called many things besides it." I cocked my head, puzzled by his riddling reply, yet Petrushka was unfazed. "So what do you want me to call you?" His slurred smirk curled slowly up his lips like a piece of paper held to a flame. "B," was his simple answer. "You may call me B."


	4. Chapter 4

I want to  
I want to be someone else or I'll explode  
Floating upon the surface for the birds  
The birds

You want me?  
Fucking well come and find me  
I'll be waiting  
With a gun and a pack of sandwiches  
And nothing  
Nothing

You want me?  
Well come on and break the door down  
You want me?  
Fucking come on and break the door down  
I'm ready  
I'm ready

-Radiohead "Talk Show Host"

The sudden bang that echoed from the other room was not all that surprising, considering we were in a mafia hideout. What was drug out from behind the closed door was what shocked me.

Gripped in the meaty palm of the behemoth man was Russell's limp body, a good quarter of his face completely missing. I imagined the rest of it lay splattered against the wall of the room.

An icy chill washed over me as I swallowed the vomit quickly rising in my throat. It was disturbing to try to connect the gory chunk of meat dangling from the man's grasp as Russell, who had been entirely whole and functional just a few minutes ago. Such a violent reality was too much for my 5 year old conscious to handle. Blossoms of darkness fizzled in the corners of my vision, and I slid limply into Petrushka's lap.

Eventually I came to, my eyes fluttering open to be greeted by B's prodding finger. "This is not a good place to pass out, little guy," he chided as I rolled onto my side, clutching my stomach. I threw up violently onto the shag carpeting, chunky pink mixing with furry brown into a sick sort of tie-dye effect. I shivered silently as the waves of clamminess washed over me and finally subsided. "You okay Mihael?" Petrushka brushed back the hair clinging to my puke-drizzled lips, concern swimming in her icy eyes. Just then I realized how pathetic I must've looked, a small boy passing out at the sight of blood, his sister fussing over him like a mother hen. Blushing, I sat up, wiping the spew from my face with the back of my sleeve. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just worry about yourself."

And that's exactly what I did next, worried about myself. Not only was I unlucky enough to lose both my parents, but now our backup parent was dead (and still staring at me sickeningly with the remaining half of his face). As the lustful eyes of some of the greasier looking men edged closer to us, we were both screwed in almost every sense of the word. There was no backup now, no plan B.

Plan B…

B had taken a defensive stance between us and the man beast, who was now approaching, niet, _stalking_ towards us.

"Those kids'll fetch about 100,000 rubles each on the market, you really think we're gonna pass that up?" He glared down at B as if he was merely an insect, and in comparison he really did look like one. In fact, upon closer inspection, B had to have been at least 10 years younger than anyone else in the room; yet somehow, he held this aura of silent respect from the hardened criminals, which to this day I've always admired.

B glanced back at us, steely grey eyes darting once again to and fro above our heads. "I'll take them," he said with a surprising edge of authority in his voice, not breaking eye contact with us. The man laughed heartily, muscles rippling with each guffaw. "Never knew you were into that sort of stuff, though I guess they really are almost your age." B's mop of black hair whipped around fast as a lit oil streak to face the man. "Shut the fuck up _Nikita_," venom injected into his voice as he hissed the man's name. "What's it matter who buys the kids as long as you get the money? And you know I have it." Nikita glared malevolently at B, most likely imagining the many ways he'd like to dismember him, yet held his tongue. "Just take it out of my share the next few gigs we get, _da comrade_?" The man snarled, picking up what was left of Russell and dragging it into another room.

Petrushka and I blinked at each other as the realization that we were just bought and sold set in. I slowly released a breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding, and sunk, emotionally spent, into the cushions of the sofa. They felt so warm and comforting, so simple and embracing, I never wanted to leave them. The events of the day had been too much for my 5 year old self to endure, and so I stared blankly at the ceiling and snuggled deeper into the sofa. Maybe if I dug in deep enough I could hide in there and never be found. Yeah, that sounded nice, a simple, blissful life amongst the dust bunnies and loose change…

Then Petrushka grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and shoved me back into reality. I ended up stepping in my own vomit as I tagged along behind her, B in the lead, back up the stairs. The cold air hit me hard as we opened the door into the snow, leaving me longing once again for the warm cushions. "I'm terribly sorry for all that mess back there, I hope you weren't frightened," _Don't worry about it, this sort of thing happens to me all the time!_ I thought bitterly, though those words would ring ironically in my head many years down the road. "So I take it you're not a pervert," Petrushka blurted, candid as always. B giggled lightly, his youth showing through his previously mature demeanor. "It depends on who's asking the question, but in the sense you're searching for, no. I am not a pervert." His reply left me perturbed, but the immediate need for a guardian took precedence over his suspicious demeanor.

Out of the pocket of his faded jeans, B produced a set of keys, the jangling of which preceded a generic beeping. Miraculously hidden in a copse of evergreens was a sleek black Mercedes. I briefly wondered if B was even old enough to drive before being escorted into the backseat. The khaki leather upholstery was still chilly from sitting outside so long, but its soft embrace was much more welcoming than the scratchy paisley sofa. Once again my comfort was fleeting as Petrushka suddenly dashed through the snow back towards the outhouse. "Petra, wait!" My protective brother instincts kicked in as her longer legs easily outran me. "Calm down, would you? I'm just getting something from Russell's car," she barked. A few seconds later, she came waddling back under the weight of the enormous box of junk food. B's expression looked like that of a child on Christmas morning as he snatched the box from her hands and sifted through it greedily. "Do you know if there's any- Ooh, fruit roll ups!" B's slender fingers tore open the snack wrapper with a sort of dainty ferociousness that I had never seen before, and would only see once again. He used only his thumb and forefinger, but this awkward method seemed suffice to attack the wrapper with the quick efficiency of a deadly assassin… a fruit roll up assassin.

Oxymoronic as the phrase may seem, it was the best way to describe him. B made such a curious mixture of razor sharp, lethal maturity and sugar-coated giddiness that it was impossible to predict his behavior. He seemed just as likely to bake cookies with you as he would blow your head off. I couldn't help but watch in grotesque fascination as he made quick work of the fruit snacks, licking all traces of the sticky red goo off his fingers like a criminal eliminating evidence.

"Well that was lovely, but I believe the car should be warmed up by now," B mumbled through the wad of fruit roll up in his mouth. Sitting back down in the Mercedes was heavenly; the once frigid seats were now toasty warm, and I thanked the many cows that gave their lives so that my frozen ass might be thawed. B seemed thankful for the warmth as well as he slipped into the driver's seat. "So where are we going?" Petrushka asked. She seemed to be doing most of the talking, I was still too afraid. "The orphanage," B replied nonchalantly. He giggled unnervingly at our terrified expressions; Russia was not known for its top standard orphanages. "No no, don't worry. I'm not that heartless. I would never dump you off at one of the hell holes here." His assurance was of dubious comfort. "It just so happens that I'm an orphan as well, and I know just the place that two little lost angels such as yourselves would fit in nicely." Petrushka glared at him incredulously. "And where exactly would that be?" I swear I saw a hint of red glint in B's eyes as he flashed us another of his trademark grins. "Anyone up for a trip to jolly ol' England?"


	5. Chapter 5

I've decided that whoever invented the air sick bag is a complete moron. Considerate, but a moron. There's no way a half-starved toddler, let alone a person who's eaten a healthy sized meal, could fit all that vomit in such a small bag.

Needless to say, our flight to England was not a pleasant one. B whipped up a couple of fake passports for us with a Polaroid camera, a scalpel, and some old passports from deceased mob lackies. He always carried them with him "just in case", like some sort of contraband boy scout. Lord knows what else he had stuffed in his trunk "just in case".

The flight attendants had big hair, bad teeth, wore obnoxiously high heels, and kept asking me if "my stomach was to be wanting a ginger ale". B answered for me in fluent English that no, I was not to be wanting a ginger ale, and shooed the ladies away. "Those carts they push barely fit in the aisles, yet apparently aren't big enough to carry anything besides over-salted peanuts and tiny bottles of schnapps. They'd better make room next time for some jam, or I'm not flying!" He whined, and crossed his arms like a child throwing a tantrum. "And then she's got the nerve to tell me how to sit! I've got my seat belt on, what's she care?! The chances of us surviving a crash are only about 30% anyway." Petrushka looked mortified the rest of the trip and dug nail holes into the soft plush of the arm rests. I drifted in and out of consciousness, the dull roar of the turbines lulling me to sleep, and my masochistic stomach waking me back up.

My first impression of England was that it was very grey. The sky was grey, the people were grey, even the tea was grey. Petrushka and I clung to B like remora fish on a shark; frightened of him, but even more frightened of the big new ocean we had just swum into. I couldn't read any of the signs or understand any of the words that were spoken around me, and instantly felt stupid. Language was one of the most crucial tools used by man, and without it I felt alienated and incapable. Given we had B to translate for us, but I had always hated depending on others, especially so heavily.

We stopped for dinner (or lunch I guess considering the time change) at a McDonalds inside the airport. B magically whipped a few pounds out of his wallet, and paid for the meal. I hadn't quite learned the concept of foreign currency at this age, but looking back it was odd that he just happened to have some English pounds shoved in his pocket after such a hasty trip from Russia. I was too distracted by the little dinosaur that turned into a cheeseburger in my happy meal to notice.

Afterwards, we went to a quick-mart where B picked up several jars of strawberry preserves, a bag of gummy peach rings, a gallon of iced tea, an extremely large box of toffee, and two rolls of toilet paper. Seemingly pleased with himself, he rolled his cart up to the check-out counter like a happy shopper, and proceeded to pass the items to a young girl in a red apron. But all was not well. Jealous of B's enormous mound of sweets, I wanted something to satisfy my own lust for sugar. I tugged sharply on his jeans, a bold move considering I was afraid to be in the same room as the man, and pointed aggressively at a rack next to the counter. "I want chocolate," I demanded. It was the most I spoke to him since we met. His steel grey eyes bored into me, and for a moment I thought he was going to hit me. Then he glanced back at his pile of candy, and back again at the rack. Kneeling down so that he was at my level, he said, "let's make a lesson out of this, shall we? I'll get you a bar of chocolate, if you can ask me for it in English. Now repeat after me, _I want chocolate_." The words sounded strange and oddly harsh, but I tried my best. "_I vant chuckco-late_," I mumbled. "_Please_," he added. "_Pu-leahse_." With that, he grabbed a bar off the rack, swiped it under the scanner himself, and passed it to me. "Here you go, Count Chocula." Satisfied, I started to rip off the wrapper as fast as I could, but not before B grabbed my chin forcefully, yet not painfully, and tilted my head up to look him in the eye. "The next time you demand something like that so impolitely, you'd better make sure that person has an awful lot of respect for you, or else you might find yourself tangoing in the Thames with a pair of cement Oxfords. Understand?" I actually did not understand, but whatever he was implying sounded threatening enough, so I nodded vigorously. "And also, it's customary to thank people when they buy you a gift." A wry smile pursed the corner of his lips. "Thank you, Mr. B," I stuttered. He let go of me and ruffled my hair as I rubbed my reddening jaw. "You're lucky you're so damn cute. I'd probably let you get away with murder."

B managed to flag down a big black taxi that reeked of cigar smoke, and shoved us in the back seat. "_To Wammy's House_," he told the driver, and away we went. As was customary for me, I fell asleep during the ride. The sun was still out, but Petrushka's watch told us it was about 9:00 P.M back home. I awoke about 15 minutes later to find her snoring on my shoulder, my arm going numb from the awkward position. Seeing that we had reached our destination, I shook her off, trying to get the blood flowing back into my tingling fingertips. In front of us loomed a towering Victorian style mansion, caged behind intricate wrought iron gates. I felt confused for a moment, _wasn't B taking us to an orphanage_? The word orphanage always conjured up images of dilapidated shacks full of scrawny, bruised children wearing burlap sacks and eating piss-colored soup. The children here certainly seemed healthy and happy, and the "orphanage" was anything but a rickety old shack. Boys and girls younger than me and as old as 18 tromped around the front of the mansion, throwing balls and jumping rope and being generally merry. A large bronze plaque was fixed to the stone column supporting the gate. "_Wammy's House for Gifted Children. Est. 1976_." B pressed and held a small button next to a speaker built into the same wall. "_Password please_," a lilting female voice said in English. B pressed in the button again. "_I want my MTV_." There was a long pause before the woman replied again. "_I'm sorry, that password has been terminated. Would you like to try another one_?" B growled in frustration and slammed in the button with his fist. "_Just tell Roger to open the fucking gates! I got toffee for the old coot_." He took the box of toffee out of the plastic bag and shook it in the air temptingly. A few seconds later, the gates creaked open, their unoiled hinges protesting loudly. My own feet protested as we made our way through the crowd of children, each step taking us further from our familiar past and hurling us into an uncertain future. Though I held my head high, my hand trembled in Petrushka's grasp as the throngs of children stopped and stared at us. New orphans must've arrived there everyday; to them we were just another number amongst the thousands of other cliché sob stories. As the doors to Wammy's House swung open wide, I had the eerie feeling that I was trapped in an old zombie movie, the masses of children closing in on me, clawing at me, making me one of the collective.

Making me just another number.


End file.
